


by tomorrow you should grow

by eudaimon



Series: South, South [3]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Canon.  After Brad is injured during an accident in Iraq, he and Nate begin a journey through South America designed to clear the air between them after years apart.  Some days are easier than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by tomorrow you should grow

_you fondle then fight, tonight._  
By tomorrow you should grow.  
Hades, the place you reside tonight.  
By tomorrow we should know. 

 

_**06.30** : but lonely is so lonely, alone._  
He aches, no matter what position he's in. On his side, the stitches pull. On his back, it hurts to breath. The bruises have faded but, sometimes, Nate still traces where they were along his side. Brad ends up covering Nate's hand with one of his and rolling away. It's easier to pretend he can settle and be comfortable if Nate's not looking straight at him.

He realises that this is not optimum.

In the washed-out Mexican dawn, he lies listening to Nate breathe. In the Iraq, it seemed like Nate was always wakeful; Brad never remembers hearing that that he was in his rack but, in a shitty motel in a shitty little town, Nate sleeps deeply, rolled onto his side with one knee pressed between Brad's thighs, his nose against the nape of his neck, or his collarbone. Sometimes, Brad dreams that they're tumbled together in a ranger grave and he finds Nate's lips with his, desperate, and mumbles one of the few prayers than he can remember from childhood, _and these words which I command you this day shall be on your heart_.

He never has the words to say, _I wish we'd had time for this before_.  
The grave dream isn't so bad. It's worse when he dreams of being whole.

The worst dream that he has in the one where he dreams that they're running, and he keeps pace with Nate smoothly, without trying.

On the small, rickety table beside the bed, the screen on his phone lights up; he's taken to turning off any alerts because Nate's still doing all of the driving, long hours behind the wheel, and Brad knows him well enough to know that he'll push himself harder and longer than he has to. Nate's head is pillowed on his shoulder, so Brad reaches out awkwardly with one hand and cages his phone without disturbing him. He swipes his thumb across the screen and **ONE MISSED CALL** flashes back at him. Doc. He looks at his watch. It's an hour later in Philadelphia, but it's still fucking early.

Without waking Nate, he listens to the message.

" _Brad, you need to check in and let everyone know you're okay. I hope you know that this is supremely retarded behaviour, Colbert_."

It's the third message in two days.  
It's not something he's ready for so he lets his phone hit the floor.

An hour later, he wakes, desperate to piss, with Nate's weight still tucked in against his side. 

At first, he thought that he could do this on his own. He refused calls from all of them, didn't have the words to explain that he constantly dreamed that it was them there, Doc Bryan staring and helpless; Poke's skull no easier to hold together than anybody else's; Ray's silence the worst of all. (He never dreamed about Nate and it wasn't until later, waking up to Nate stoic and silent at the end of his bed that he realised: even then, even after, he found it impossible to picture a stiuation in which Nate Fick wouldn't know what to do).

And here they are, anyway. And, sometimes, Nate looks exactly as helpless as Brad feels.  
It's like being back in Iraq.

In the shower, he shakes until Nate slides in behind him and braces them both with two hands against the tile. Dimly, as though it has nothing to do with him, he's aware of Nate's morning hard-on pressed against his ass. Nate's so good, so kind and patient, and Brad just wants those twelve hours back, when everything was so easy and so good and they'd held back from actually fucking for reasons that he can't now recall. He'd keep the limp forever if it meant that he could that easily be with Nate again.

"It's nothing," says Nate, shifting carefully, putting some space between their bodies as Brad turns between him and the tiles. "We could cover a lot of klicks today, if you feel up to it."

He says these two things in the same tone of voice, as if they're somehow to do with each other.  
And none of it is nothing.

His hand slips over Nate's hip. Nate's skin is soft and slick but, underneath, Brad can feel muscle that's hard and flat. You don't stop being a Marine just because you're done; he's always known that.

Things that Brad is missing, mid-morning in Mexico: thirty-five percent of the hearing in his left ear, his peace of mind, a long strip of muscle from his right thigh and whatever it is that ought to tighten behind his balls at the sight of Nate leaning back against the tiles, skin wet, dick hard, that particular look on his face, obviously wanting. What's missing here is any hint of an S.O.P; Brad has no idea of how best to proceed. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The backs of his fingers graze against Nate's belly. When he curls his fingers around Nate's dick, he's not sure which one of them is trembling more.

"You don't have to, Brad," Nate says, his voice tight, eyes wide and pale and fixed on Brad's face. "I can. You really don't have to."

Yes, he does.

At first, he's awkward. It took him a while to learn how to walk with a limp; the rhythm was all wrong. Stroking Nate, jerking him off in the shower like this is somehow similar at first; he just can't find the rhythm. He can't look at Nate while he does it. It feels right, the weight of Nate's dick in his hand, the smell of Nate's skin when he sways forward and presses the tip of his nose against Nate's shoulder. It ought to feel completely right but, somehow, it doesn't and he's pathetically grateful when Nate's fingers curl over his, steadying him and helping him find a pace that gels with the rock of Nate's hips. Neither of them talk. The shower stall traps and amplifies their breathing and, when Nate moans, a little sound caught in the back of his throat, it's the only thing that Brad can hear.

Nate comes on his fingers, across both of their bellies and Brad's hand's still moving and Nate's already reaching for soap. Brad clings to him with one arm around his shoulders as Nate soaps both of their bodies. The warm trickle of the shower over both of them means that tears don't show.

Out of the shower, Nate is flushed and damp, unspeakably lovely, and Brad feels pale and hollow. Naked, Nate sits down on the foot of the bed and peels away plastic and tape. He leans in and presses a kiss to the whole skin to the left of Brad's scar. With shaking fingers, Brad ruffles damp coppery hair back from Nate's face.

While Nate's getting dressed, Brad checks his messages. There's another from Doc Bryan.

" _You don't have to do this alone, you fucking retard. Jesus, Brad._ "

He knows that now.  
And he's not alone.

*

_**13.00** : i had to give up my defenses_

"I'm one paper umbrella away from being a complete and utter pussy, Nate."

He's in a foul mood, and the strippers aren't helping. Anger comes sometimes in the place of loss and the shower has just left him empty and bitter. He just wants to feel normal, to feel whole; wants to be able to pin Nate to the mattress and fuck him properly, if that's what they both want or get fucked by Nate (but he'd take being able to engage with Nate in any way that didn't leave him shaken and hollowed out, afterwards). A slightly shaky handjob isn't enough, not for either of them; this whole trip is about him, but he finds himself just wanting to be everything that Nate desires.

The girl gyrating in front of them is dark haired by her eyes are contact-lense blue. Brad's more used to Nate's eyes, sometimes more green than blue, wide and listening. It'd be easy to mistake them for _innocent_ when what they really are is _patient_.

And he needs so much patience that he doesn't have.  
And sometimes, grace is given.

Nate leans towards him, lips tinged with tequila and salt and kisses him right there in front of everyone (the club half empty in the heat of the day in this shitty little town, very close to the border and the only place that they could get anything to drink that wasn't beer). Suddenly, tits shoved high in silver lame cease to matter at all. And who cares what colour her eyes are naturally? Brad doesn't know what it is; the closeness of the heat, maybe, or the vague hint of KY in the air or maybe it's the fact that, when Nate looks at him, Brad realises that, somehow, Nate's drunker than he thought he'd be. Unbelievably, he feels that part of him which he thought had gone missing stir.

Nate says something, but he's on Brad's left side, so Brad misses it.

"What?"

Nate reaches out, salt-rimmed margarita class incongrous in a hand that's both graceful and strong. Brad watches as Nate knocks back the rest of the frozen cocktail so, when he leans in to kiss him again, his lips are tart and chill.

"I said, we're leaving," says Nate, pushing out of his chair and holding out his hands to Brad. "Be advised: I am far from done here, Sergeant Colbert."

Well, thank fuck for that.

*

_**15.00** : who told you what to look forward to._

It's far from perfect, but it's something. It's _more_ than something. He lies on the bed, stripped of the blankets, belly to the rumpled white sheets. He closes his eyes and bites his lip and concentrates on the way that Nate moves around him. Without Nate's fingers inside him, he feels empty and left; it's not a new sensation. He's been carrying those feelings around since the desert and they're always with him. Every so often, though, it's like they fall away. It's always to do with Nate; he looks over and Nate's sitting beside him in the car; he gets out of the shower and Nate's sprawled on the bed, reading a paperback novel folded back on itself; he lies there on that slept-in bed and feels Nate's lips against his spine.

It all falls away.

He's hard for the first time in weeks and he's hard for Nate, the feel of his mouth slipping lower, glimpses of long, bare limbs in the mirror at the foot of the bed whenever he risks lifting his head. Nate slides his fingers into him again, fucking him smoothly, his other hand stroking against Brad's wounded thigh like it'll settle him. It does, sort of. He lets his head drop, presses one knee into the bed and rocks back as much as he can against Nate's fingers and the wet press of Nate's mouth against his tailbone. He groans softly, the sound muffled by the pillow. There's no sound in the room except Nate's mouth and the way the're both breathing. His fingers fist on the pillow next to his head and he rocks backwards, his dick grazing against the sheet with each movement of his hips. He reaches back, fumbling. He's indescribably grateful when Nate takes his hand and then there's nothing but Nate, Nate's hand, Nate's fingers, Nate's mouth, the heat off Nate's skin. It's easier if he doesn't look at Nate. It's simpler if he takes this one limping step at a time. 

When he comes, it's almost painful. First time in months.  
He squeezes his eyes shut and moans Nate's name. Somewhere in there, jumbled up, he thinks he calls him _Sir_.

The sheets are a mess but they kick them off the bed and lie down close together, Nate's knee pressed forward between Brad's, his fingers stirring against his ribcage. Nate kisses the back of his neck. Brad smiles and turns his face, pushing his nose into the pillow.

"I love you," he murmurs. Nate kisses the back of his neck again. His fingers tighten.  
"I know that."  
"Who died and made you Han fucking Solo?"

Nate snorts softly.

"I love you too, Brad."

On the night-stand, Brad's cellphone shivers. He reaches for it, but Nate's there first. He swipes his thumb against the touchscreen. Brad lies down against the pillow again and closes his eyes.

Tim Bryan sounds weary. Brad imagines him in his black and white tiled kitchen in Philidelphia, his beautiful girlfriend watering her garden as he watches.

"So, I just left this same message on the LT's phone, but I'll leave it here for good fucking measure, too: wherever you two assholes are, I fucking hope you're there together."

"What are we doing tomorrow?" he asks, as Nate turns off his phone and drops it onto the bed over their heads.  
"Tomorrow," says Nate, like he's mulling it over. "Tomorrow, we're going to get up early and we're crossing the border."

It might not be a _whole_ future but, while the ache in his leg is bearable and he's tired but not lonely and Nate is warm and close and solid, it sounds like a good start.


End file.
